


Instigator

by InsaneTrollLogic



Series: Hockey!verse [17]
Category: New Girl
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Gen, Hockey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 04:38:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5078110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsaneTrollLogic/pseuds/InsaneTrollLogic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The term for guys like Nick is 'organizational fodder'. [hockey!AU]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Instigator

**Author's Note:**

> Just go ahead and pretend there is an ECHL level team around LA. You know if you're one of the four people reading this fic who follows minor league hockey and has managed to unravel the ridiculous ECHL/AHL shake-up that happened during the off season.
> 
> For those of you who don't follow hockey, Nick Miller is clearly not someone who plays in the NHL (the best league). Or the AHL (the best of the minor leagues). He plays at the lowest level that can still be considered professional. 
> 
> ALSO, this fic is part of the hockey!verse, but contains not a single mention of the other stories in the hockey verse.

Jessica Day moves into their loft the day Nick breaks his nose for the seventh time. He’s slightly out of it, washing his Advil down with beer, trying not to be jealous that his twenty-year-old teammate got the AHL call while Nick’s still scraping by on the league minimum.

At some point between practices and games, he’s somehow agreed to a new roommate. One that has no connection to hockey except for her best friend, Cece, who’s on the LA Kings cheerleading squad.

If he’d been thinking clearly when he agreed to this, he might have seen trouble.

* * *

His first thought after seeing Jess is that she’s one of the puck bunnies Schmidt routinely swindles into thinking he’s an athlete. This assessment is immediately revised when she spends the first week doing nothing but watching _Dirty Dancing_ in some sort of bizarre post-breakup ritual. When he broke up with Caroline, there’d been a lot of nights on the couch watching _Goon,_ or _Slap Shot._ Not to mention weeping manly tears at _Miracle,_ because that was more acceptable than weeping over his broken heart. 

Short story is, he gets it. He can even sympathize for a little. So when Schmidt and Winston decide to hit the bar with Jessica, he tags along.

It’s always a little weird hitting the bar during the season. The regulars all give the stink eye because the girl behind the counter doesn’t mix drinks half as strong. Nick finds himself hiding in one of the far corners with his new roommate as Schmidt hits on a redhead that is far out of his league and Winston fights his way to the bar to get the next round.

They sit awkwardly for a few moments before Jess finally clears her throat and says, “So, Schmidt says you’re a bartender?”

Nick knows Schmidt means well. “I’m going to kill him.”

“That’s a bit of an extreme reaction. I mean there’s no shame in bartending. You probably got that slightly intimidating black eye breaking up a fight.”

“Actually,” Nick says, “I started the fight.”

“Started the fight?” Jess parrots, “You’re the kind of guy who _starts_ the fight?”

“I start a lot of fights,” Nick says, kind of enjoying the way her already huge eyes get even bigger.

Winston comes back, pitcher in one hand, glasses in the other. “Chill,” he says. “He’s a hockey player.”

“Oh!” Jess says. “That’s the one on ice, right? I always thought that you had to be so graceful to be able to skate like that.”

Winston starts cracking up as Jess extols the virtues of ice skating in a way that seems very similar to confusing hockey with figure skating. He’s not quite sure when he started shouting, but all of a sudden he’s on his feet screaming, “Your best friend is a cheerleader for the Kings, how do you not know this?!”

Later that night, Schmidt mumbles darkly about it being a bad omen for their new roommate, but it’s also the best night out Nick’s had in years.

* * *

 

Nick met Schmidt at college. He’d walked onto the varsity hockey team as a freshman and he’d had a partial scholarship by sophomore year. Schmidt didn’t know a thing about hockey, but he’d got it in his head that being a student manager for the team would be a great resume boost. If even half of what he says about his personal worth is true, Nick thinks he might have been right.

Nick had never been a star, but by his senior year, he’d been a second line center on a team that made the Frozen Four. He remembered sitting with on his bed, Schmidt—or at least half of Schmidt, he’d missed a weird fitness kick when the season was going on—talking about some big job in LA. He’d been clutching his law school acceptance letter in one hand and staring hard at his team sweats.

Schmidt told him that he had no future in hockey. That he was undersized and too slow. Nick already knew this. He’d read the scouting reports. There was a reason he had to walk onto the college team.

But he’d just gotten off the phone with Winston who was heading to Latvia to play basketball. Coach was getting his look at the NFL. And well, Nick’s never been good at doing what would be best for him.

* * *

To be fair, Nick does bartend. He bartends all off season. He’s bartended every off season since college. His cocktails, when he can be persuaded to make them, are killer, and apparently having a professional athlete on staff—even a minor league hockey player—is somewhat of a catch.

Coach was the first one to quit the pro athlete game. He’d had two seasons in the NFL. Which—as he’s quick to point out—is double the career of the usual pro footballer. Winston bows out after a couple years overseas.

And Nick, who’s never been a success story, who’s never been a star, stays in minor league hockey. He’d lived on Schmidt’s couch in the off seasons until blind luck brought him to a team in the same city and gave him enough permanence to start renting a room.

* * *

The Blackhawks are playing and Nick’s breath whistles through his broken nose. Jess winces every time there’s a hit. She keeps hinting about putting something else on, but when Nick has the day off, he watches the Blackhawks.

“I don’t get you Miller,” she says as he starts cursing out the referees for an obviously missed boarding call. “Would have never pegged you as the type to bring work home.”

He’s momentarily derailed. “What do you mean, work?”

“Winston’s explained to me your very strict no bartending at home rule. But you’ve got a night off, and here you are on the couch, watching the same thing you do every day of the week.”

He frowns hard. “If you’re asking me to make you a cocktail, you’re being weird about it.”

“May I have a cocktail?” Jess asks, batting her eyes.

“No,” says Nick. “In this loft you drink beer and you like it.”

Jess rolls her eyes. “Then can I please change the channel?”

“The Blackhawks are on.”

“But you’re going to a hockey game tomorrow!”

“I’m playing in a hockey game tomorrow there’s a difference.”

“It’s all the same thing! What gives, Miller? This is your job.”

“If I was watching game tape that would be my job. This is the Blackhawks. I’ve been watching the Blackhawks since I was two years old. These guys are so far out of my league, it might as well be a different sport!”

Jess huffs and folds her arms over her chest. “I don’t get it. I mean I can’t even figure out half the rules. Why is it okay to hit people sometimes, but other times it’s a penalty? It seems like no hitting should be a rule obeyed at all times.”

“If that was a rule,” Nick says. “I’d be out of a job.”

“I can’t imagine what you’d be like if you didn’t get to hit people at your job,” Jess says. “I mean, I think you shout a lot now, but imagine what you’d be like without a pressure release.”

“WHEN DO I EVER SHOUT AT YOU?”

* * *

Nick remembers the time when he used to go out with his teammates. It was always interesting for a hockey team to roll into a bar. Twenty or so enormous guys most of whom had missing teeth and facial scars. They were like the world’s most Canadian gang.

But eventually the word always got out that they were a team.

And without fail, the puck bunnies arrived.

They were around in pretty much all sports. He’s sure Coach got his fair share of cleat chasers in his heyday. He’s not sure what the basketball equivalent is called, but Winston’s game with woman disappeared the second he stopped playing ball. Nick prefers the ones who actually go to the games. When they just show up in bars, Nick likes to speak exclusively in hockey terms, a kind of personal litmus test. The worst part is, asking if _I can put a stick in your crease,_ has worked in a pinch.

Caroline had been a puck bunny, at least initially. Last Nick heard, she’d started dating at AHL player. Next stop was probably an NHLer. It was enough to sour him on the entire trend.

Not that it’s as easy as it used to be. The lower level minor leagues are populated almost exclusively by kids straight out of college or juniors. The ones who are going to make it get a look at the next level within a couple years. Nick’s just over thirty and he’s been the oldest one on the team for the past two season.

Even for puck bunnies, it’s kind of a turn off when his twenty-two year old teammates call him gramps.

Besides, he can’t drink like them anymore. Not if he wants to be even semi-conscious for early practices. There is literally nothing worse than skating with a hangover.

So if he spends his nights out with Winston, Schmidt and Jess, that’s his own business. He just wishes Schmidt didn’t automatically assume it was a sign of his impending retirement.

* * *

He takes Jess skating.

She’s never skated before and it’s not until the first step onto ice that he realizes taking someone who regularly trips over thin air to a place that minimizes friction is a dangerous prospect. Two strides into the rink, he has a very shaky Jessica Day clinging to his arm.

“How is everyone so good at this?” Jess shrieks as a four year old swipes by her leg.

“Don’t worry about it, Jess,” Nick says. “The first time someone puts me on skates, I was two years old. Friend of the family flooded the backyard and let it ice. You bet your ass I fell down.”

“Lot less distance to fall when you’re two,” Jess says, wobbling.

“I’m not going to let you fall. Seriously. I taught Schmidt how to skate. I can handle Jessica Day.”

“I can’t believe you do this professionally,” Jess huffs. “While other giant men try to crush you. I am more impressed by the second.”

Her leg goes out from under her, but Nick catches her first, keeps her on her feet. “I’m not that impressive. I’m a third rate center on the worst team in a third rate league.”

“Nonsense,” Jess says. She’s doing some sort of an accent, but Nick’s never been able to place any of hers. He hopes it's not supposed to be Canadian. “I’ll be seeing you at one of those LA Kings games in no time.”

“No you see, the LA Kings are the big time. For people bigger faster and stronger for me.” Nick laughs. “I’m never going to make it to the big time. The only person who’ll ever wear a Nick Miller jersey to a game is me.”

“Then why bother?”

“Because I love it,” Nick wraps an arm around her shoulder. “Hockey’s the one thing that’s never let me down. I wish I was better, I wish I could have you know, my name up in lights, but I never will. I know I should quit before concuss myself into oblivion, but instead I think I’m going to just keep holding on.”

Jess glides a step, oddly calm.

Nick fidgets. “If you’re about to give me the _if you love something, let it go_ speech, you should know I haven’t historically responded well to that.”

Jess scoffs. “If you love something, you should stick with it for as long as you can physically can.”

* * *

The term for guys like Nick is _organizational fodder_. He’s never going to make it to the NHL. He’s going to be in the minor leagues until injury or common sense makes him stop. He’s a support player, someone to fill out a roster. Who doesn’t mind that the pay’s lousy and the games eat most of his weekend nights. Who’s there because he doesn’t know when to give up and find a real job. These days, he’s mostly okay with the idea.

Still, middle of the season is hard. He’s always loved the game, but there are days when he wakes up and everything hurts, days where he feels like he’s trying to skate through quicksand. He wishes he had a tube of oxygen between shifts. One of the kids on the first line, claps him on his back, says, “C’mon gramps, got to keep moving.”

The arena’s tiny, but that doesn’t disguise the fact that their attendance is pitiful. LA’s not exactly a hotbed for winter sports. The ice is terrible, the boards soft and slow. They’re trailing by three which means they’re going to need some kind of spectacle for the fans to keep watching. And Nick’s really not feeling up to picking a fight with the ogre of a defenseman.

He hops over the boards, and skates to center for the face-off.

He’s always been good at this part. He may be a slow skater and too small, but he’s got the perfect combination of timing and reflexes to win about sixty percent of the face-offs. There’s a spot on almost any roster for a guy like that. So long as he can keep winning draws, he’ll stay in the league. His only other asset is agitation.

The center on the other team is about nineteen. He’ll be in the AHL before the end of the season, the NHL after that if he ever manages to hang any weight on his scrawny frame. Despite the fact that face-offs are Nick's strength, the kid’s had his number today.

“Hey Miller!” a voice calls from the stands. The arena is empty enough for the voice to echo.

Nick glances to the stands.

Jess is there. She’s got Schmidt on one side, attention mostly on his cell phone. Winston’s on her other shoulder wearing two sweaters and a hat with floppy ears. Cece’s standing behind them, looking tall and beautiful. With her work on the LA Kings’s Ice Crew, she’s probably the most recognizable hockey-related face in the building.

Schmidt and Winston have been to his games before, but this is a first for Jess. She’s not wearing her usual cutesy dress either. She’s somehow managed to acquire a team sweater. And more than that, the number on her sleeve matches the one on his own.

It’s a Nick Miller jersey.

He feels warm inside despite all the ice.

“Hey gramps,” the kid opposite him says. “Wanna go?”

Nick does a double-take. The kid’s got delicate features, a straight nose and all his teeth. If he has to guess, the only reason he’s not at a higher level is that someone decided he needed to toughen up.

“Kid,” Nick says. “You couldn’t touch me right now. Don’t even try.”

He wins the ensuing face-off clean.


End file.
